“You still haven’t answered the question,” I say.
She swallows, and her gaze tracks the lines of my face. “I’m okay.”
Satisfied, I lean forward and press a kiss to her temple, wishing more than anything it was her mouth, before I rise to my feet. “I’ll let you get some rest. Is there anything else I can do?”
Before I can finish, she blurts out, “You could stay.”
She looks up at me, her eyes catching the light—violet and glassy—and the quiet plea in them grips my chest like a fist.
She slips beneath the covers, then glances back, earnest and a little shy, patting the empty space beside her.
I hesitate for half a heartbeat before lying down, careful to leave a sliver of distance between us. But when she turns, curling into me like she’s seeking warmth, that space disappears. She’s small and soft against me, her body fitting perfectly with mine, and I feel every rise and fall of her breath.
My hand drifts to her back, tracing slow circles beneath the hem of my hoodie, trying not to think about how much I want her—or how badly I wish this moment belonged to another time, another version of us.
Her breathing steadies, warm against my neck, and when her body finally relaxes into mine, I whisper into the quiet, “Good night, Tatum.”
Chapter 26
TATUM
Sunlight filters through the blinds of the single window in my room, warming my face and pulling me from a dreamless sleep. For one blissful moment, I exist in the hazy space between unconsciousness and awareness, where nothing hurts and everything is possible. Then reality crashes in.
The breakup. The argument. Brandon carrying me home.
I bolt upright, wincing as the movement jars my blistered feet. The space beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch.
Did Brandon leave? The thought sends a pang through my chest with surprising intensity.
I prepare to lie back down and wallow when I hear someone clearing their throat, and I whip my head toward the sound, only to find Brandon standing in the doorway. Backlit by the light coming from the suite beyond, he’s a sight to behold?hair rumpled, jawline shadowed with stubble. Stilldressed in the same T-shirt and jeans from last night, he watches me with careful concern, and my breath catches at the sight of him.
The tightness in my chest fades, like a fist finally opening after being clenched for too long. Having him here feels like coming to the surface for air, like finding shelter in a storm. After weeks of pretending everything was fine—thatIwas fine without him—his presence is the first thing that feels real.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’m not devastated about Ethan; I’m relieved. What hurts isn’t losing him—it’s simply the idea of him, the love I thought I’d finally found, and all the time wasted.
“Morning, sleepyhead.” Brandon offers me a lopsided grin as he makes his way toward me. “I brought you breakfast. Figured you could use some comfort food after last night,” he says, motioning to the cardboard beverage tray and black pastry box in his hands.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, my voice still rough with sleep.
He shrugs, the simple gesture so achingly familiar it makes my heart hurt. “I wanted to.”
He moves closer, and immediately, I’m engulfed by his scent—clean laundry and that familiar hint of cologne that’s always clung to him—and I’ve never wanted to keep something more. I tug the fabric of his hoodie closer, selfishly hoping he won’t ask for it back as he sits beside me, balancing the coffee tray with care.
When I glance at him, something in my chest twists. I don’t deserve this—don’t deservehim. Not after cutting him out, after choosing Ethan, after weeks of silence that I told myself were for the best. And yet here he is, bringing me coffee, and tending to me like none of it ever happened.
The weight of it—the mistake I made, the ache I caused—crashes over me in one dizzying rush.
“I got one of all your favorites,” he says softly, handing me the box.
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat as I take it from him with trembling hands, then lift the lid and peek inside. The scent of sugar hits me at the same time I take in the assortment of pastries, and my stomach growls in response.
With a small laugh, Brandon hands me a coffee cup, his fingers brushing against mine as he studies me, those blue eyes seeming to look straight through me, past all my defenses.
“How are you, really?” he asks after a beat of silence.
The question is simple, but his gaze is so intense, so searching, that I feel stripped bare, like he can read my every thought. Not that there’s any hiding from Brandon—there never has been. He’s always been able to see right through me, to the real me, even at times when I’ve tried to hide from myself.
